


The Adventure Of The Dead Man's Watch

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [30]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Assassins & Hitmen, Caring Sherlock Holmes, F/M, London, M/M, Secret Messages, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 07:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15138179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A man knows that he is going to be murdered, but finds an ingenious way to make sure his killer is captured – with a little help from Sherlock, of course.





	The Adventure Of The Dead Man's Watch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weeping_willow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeping_willow/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

As mentioned in the interlude, this case happened shortly after Watson's first literary effort, _A Study In Scarlet_ appeared in the _”Strand”_ magazine. My brother's less that fulsome praise (I am being sarcastic here) for said efforts led to a sharp cooling in their friendship which, thanks to Sherlock accepting my lover Kean's most sagacious and excellent advice (he made me put that in, damn him!), was soon back to normal.

In his one reference to this story Watson mentioned that the murderer had been dispatched to his own final sleep, which a careless editor somehow contrived to change to a reference to the victim's bedtime. People these days!

Kean has just suggested an early bedtime for the two of us. Honestly, it is not even ten of the morning and.... oh Lord he is wearing those Shorts of Doom again! Lord have mercy on a soon to be broken man!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

This was a most unusual case and it was with some regret that I was unable to publish it at the time. Once again the involvement of a lady – the widow of the slain man and a completely innocent party – meant that I had to merely document the case, and wait, rather ironically in this instance, for the passage of time. A great pity, as this was a most excellent adventure in which a dead man managed to bear witness against his own killer and Holmes solved a case by winding a watch.   
Or trying to wind it.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Holmes and I moved in very different social circles and apart from Stamford who had introduced us, about the only friend that we had in common was Doctor Peter Goodfellow, an amiable flaxen-haired fellow of about my age whom Holmes had known at Oxford in his college days and who now worked at my surgery. He held to the belief, uncommon in those days but gaining more acceptance now, that mental issues were as much behind the illnesses that we treated as physical ones if not more so, and he was very observant even for a doctor. I did not suspect anything when he invited me to his room at the surgery for a drink after we closed that evening, until he pounced.  
“You have been looking miserable all day”, he said, handing me a whisky. “And you should be joyful and triumphant, given the reception to your first _magnum opus_.  
That was true, I supposed. The _”Times_ had reviewed myself and two other new authors in the _”Strand”_ magazine that very day, and they had been very positive about my humble efforts. And the magazine themselves had been pleased enough to hint that, if sales kept up, I might be asked to provide a second story for their readers.  
“Holmes was less that complimentary about my writing”, I huffed, sipping my drink. “All show and drama, he said, and not enough facts.”  
“He is a detective, not a reader”, Peter said soothingly. “The magazine is a business at the end of the day, and businesses that do not provide what their buyers want do not stay businesses for long. I myself greatly enjoyed your work and look forward to seeing what you will write next.”  
“But Holmes does not”, I sighed. “His criticisms stung, I have to say. I doubt he will want to let more of his cases be put out there, especially by someone with inferior writing skills.”  
“He is probably just jealous”, Peter said dismissively.  
I was about to reply when there was a knock at the door.  
“Enter!” Peter called out.  
It was Doctor Hiram Bullivant, an American doctor at the surgery who had married an Englishwoman and settled in London. He was about fifty years of age and looked every inch the bluff retired colonel home from India rather than a city doctor.  
“Sorry, I did not know you had company”, he smiled.   
“Come and join us”, Peter said. “We are talking crime!”  
To my surprise the American smiled.  
“Then I had better tell you about the most curious poisoning that I have just come from!”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“I had a patient in Camberwell”, Doctor Bullivant said. “Mayflower Avenue; I had left and was looking for a cab when I saw some sort of commotion at a house in Golden Hind Avenue, which joins it just by where my patient was. I went over to see what it was about, and a policeman told me to move on. But when I said I was a doctor, he asked me to step into the house. Number Twenty-Seven it was; a decent enough area. At least by Camberwell standards.”  
“There was a dead man in the front room – young fellow; could not have been more than thirty - and two more coppers were there, one of them an inspector. He asked me if I would examine the body so I did. Not long dead I thought, more than half an hour but less than an hour. It was just before seven-thirty.”  
“You were late out”, I observed.  
“The old story”, he sighed. “A patient who disobeyed a doctor's instructions, and got his wound infected. I had to strip the whole thing off and start again; I was there a good hour and a half in all. Anyway, back to that dead body. The man – his name was Mr. Martin Franklyn – had committed suicide by taking poison, right where his poor wife would find him.”  
“Was she there?” I asked.   
“She found the body for her sins”, he said grimly. “Came back from a temperance meeting, fortunately with a friend who lives down the street. Friend came in for a coffee and they found Mr. Franklyn dead. They have two lodgers living there but they had no reason to go into the front room. The inspector told me it may have been a contract killing by one of those infernal secret societies, probably an Italian job. Bloody Eye-ties!”  
I smiled to myself. Though American by birth my fellow doctor was often more xenophobic than most Englishmen!  
“Why do they think that?” Peter asked.  
“There was some weird symbol on the floor”, he said. “Nearly stepped on the thing before the constable stopped me. Sort of like a percentage sign, but more flowery. My guess is someone held a weapon of some sort on him and made him take the fatal dose. Poor fellow.”  
“Murder in Camberwell”, I sighed. “I wonder why he was killed.”  
“I doubt they'll ever find the scum who did it”, Doctor Bullivant said. “Odd, though....”  
He stopped. We both looked at him.  
“What is it?” I asked.  
“I am just being stupid”, he said dismissively. “It was nothing really.”  
“Tell us”, Peter insisted. He hesitated but gave in.  
“I mentioned it to the coppers there”, he said, “and they looked at me as if I had lost the plot. Understandable, I suppose. But that room was the tidiest place that I have ever seen in my entire life! You know how day-to-day living means there's usually clutter of some sort or other around a place; papers, magazines, nick-knacks? Gertrude is always moaning about what a pig-sty our place is. But this place looked like some sale house, not a thing out of place. Well, apart from the dead owner I suppose.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I was tempted to go and visit Holmes to discuss the Curious Case of the Clean Room, but I was still feelings sore over his criticisms of my writings so I went home to my wife. She gave me the sort of look on entering that husbands the world over have learnt to live in fear of.  
“Have I done something wrong?” I asked, not at all defensively. She smiled knowingly at me.  
“You have that look about you”, she said. “Something has happened, and you would normally be off to Baker Street to share it with your friend Mr. Holmes. Yet you returned from there yesterday in a bad mood; you always mention as a matter of course what he is about but you said nothing. He is not regretting allowing you to publish your adventure together, is he?”  
I sighed unhappily.  
“He was rather blunt in his criticisms of my writings”, I said crossly. “I put a lot of effort into that story and followed all the rules he laid out when writing it, yet he said I was far too dramatic over it all.”  
“He is a genius at some things”, my wife said, “but I doubt that popular culture is one of them. That sort of thing sells; the magazine was pleased enough from what they said.”  
“And those at work who have read it also praised my efforts”, I huffed. “Everyone was positive save the one person I... wanted to be positive, damnation!”  
“Let us have dinner”, she said, “then you can go round to Baker Street and tell him about this new case. You always enjoy working with him, dear.”  
“I did enjoy it”, I said. “Still, you are right. I must not be so touchy; not everyone will like my writing style.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Holmes was out when I called a short time later, but Mrs. Hudson said that he had only gone to the jeweller's shop just along the road. I wondered if he had a case there given the time of evening – they could surely not still be open? - and looked around the mess that was his room. I was reminded just how right Doctor Bullivant had been; even allowing for Holmes' haphazard (non-existent) approach to order the room was a mess, with books and accoutrements all over the place. This was how most people lived.  
But not, apparently, the Franklyns.  
Holmes returned and did not seem inclined to illuminate me as to his reason for his shopping trip, although I noted that he did not seem to be carrying anything. He also said nothing more about my story, so I assumed that the subject was Not To Be Talked About. I told him about the Camberwell poisoning and he seemed at least mildly interested in it.  
“I shall contact Lestrade in the morning and see if he can obtain an introduction to the local sergeant”, he promised, sinking into his chair with a heavy sigh. “I am sorry Watson, but I have to go and see my brother Mycroft at his club this evening. Not something I would wish, but Jupiter himself commands it.”  
Feeling more than a little dismissed, I said my farewells and left him.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The next day was a Saturday, so I was at home when a telegram arrived from Holmes stating that Lestrade had obtained an introduction to the local sergeant and would collect me at ten. I felt a little annoyed at his presumption but I was clearly not going to say anything about it, and not just because my wife gave me a look that said quite clearly that I was not going to say anything about it. I was master in my own house, damnation!  
Holmes arrived on time and we set out for Camberwell. Our guide to the scene of the crime was Constable Frederick Llywelyn, a fresh-faced fellow who was far too young-looking, ridiculously tall (did they grow constables in fertilizer these days?) but good-natured enough. Lestrade had told Holmes that whilst Sergeant Auburn had no objection to his taking an interest in the case, he was not going to put himself out to help. Constable Llywelyn was there as he was the local bobby and had also been first on the scene.  
I could see immediately what my fellow doctor had meant about the living-room. Apart from the rolled-up rug on which the red stain of the deceased was clearly visible, there was not a thing out of place. It was far _too_ tidy.  
“I received a call from Mrs. Branch at Number Twenty-Nine next door”, the constable said, “right where the road turns into Mayflower Avenue. She and her husband were visiting their sister in Chiswick all last week, and they arrived back to find the postman had left them a note saying there was a letter that needed to be signed for by a 'Mr. Wiles'. She guessed, correctly as it turned out, that someone had written the number either untidily or incorrectly and that it was for one of the lodgers next door, although as they happen to be a Mr. Willis and a Mr. Wales, she didn't know which one it was for. She therefore informed Mr. Franklyn and as his bank is near the post office where it had been taken he called and signed for it as the house owner.”  
“I am surprised that the post office handed it over”, I said. I had had yet more difficult dealings with our Baker Street branch of that organization, and to call them overly fussy would be like describing the Atlantic Ocean as moderately damp.  
“Mr. Franklyn returned home that evening”, the constable continued. “At half-past five; we know the time because he called in on Mrs. Branch to thank her for telling him about the letter. She remembered that he seemed rather upset, though she thought that was because of the quarrel with his wife.”  
“They did not get on?” Holmes asked.  
“He wanted to have children immediately, whilst she wanted to wait a couple of years”, he explained. “Otherwise Mrs. Branch would surely know. I should not say it, but she is the sort to hold a glass to the wall.”  
I thought back to the Long Compton 'bird-watcher' Miss Woolworth. People were much the same everywhere.  
“Mr. Franklyn apologized for the mix-up”, the constable continued, “and said it was because the sender was foreign. They wrote one of them foreign sevens with a line through it, and the postman must have read it as a nine. Mrs. Franklyn was originally from foreign parts, you see.”   
Another insular Englishman, I thought.  
“Mr. Wales was already home at this time, but Mr. Willis did not return until half an hour later, according to their statements”, the policeman said. “As you can see from the layout of the place, they have keys to their own side-door so they had no reason to enter the room where the body was found. Mrs. Branch, who was not spying on them in any way, shape or form, confirms Mr. Willis' time of return. Mrs. Franklyn was attending a church event at the local homeless shelter, and did not return home until a quarter past seven; she says that she heard the town clock striking the quarter-hour as she came down the road.”  
“My fellow doctor says she had a friend with her?” I asked. The policeman nodded.  
“That would be Mrs. Emily Gale, who lives only a few doors down. She came in for a coffee – rather fortunate that, as it made it clear the missus had no chance to do the deed herself – and naturally both ladies screamed at what they found. It was not dark then, and this is a fairly safe area.”  
“A convenient witness indeed”. Holmes said. “Did Mrs. Franklyn invite her in, do you know?”  
The policeman looked at his notes.  
“Yes, but only because her friend's husband wasn't home yet”, he said. “He gets in usually just before she comes back, but he wasn't there when they reached her house so Mrs. Franklyn then invited her in. I wondered at that too sir, but Mrs. Gale says it happens about half the time they come back together.”  
“The thing Mrs. Franklyn remembered when questioned was her husband's blue lips”, he went on, “and Doctor Bullivant who was on the scene shortly afterwards confirmed that it was most likely poison, although we are waiting the results of the _post mortem_ to make certain. There was no suicide note, and that and that weird symbol on the floor makes it look like it was one of them contract killings. I bet the man who did it is out of the country by now.”  
“Poor Mr. Franklyn”, I said.  
“One more thing”, the constable said. “Mrs. Branch says that she saw Mr. Franklyn in the back garden not long after his return, possibly only five minutes after. She thought that he might be picking some flowers for his wife. She mentioned it because she knew that he disliked gardening, it being his wife's passion.”  
Holmes nodded, and I noted that he was staring at the mantle-piece above the fire. It housed two rather ugly green-and-white decorated bottles, a brass bell, a cigarette-box, a china ornament of a lady in a dress and a glass vase containing some tall herbs.  
“He picked _herbs_ for his wife”, Holmes observed. “Not flowers. That is unusual.”  
“She has a herb garden out the back”, the constable explained. “I thought that might be why the fire was lit when no-one was here, you see. There's a paint factory in the street over the back and sometimes it smells a bit. Burning scented stuff makes the room smell better, so I'm told. Though I wonder why he did them like that; he could easily have put a few flowers in too.”  
Holmes seemed to think about this for some time.  
“Do we have the letter that was misdirected?” he asked.  
“Yes”, the constable said. “It was in the shed, of all places. I suppose the victim must have taken it with him when he did his gardening, then left it there.”  
That sounded odd, I thought. The constable handed us the letter and Holmes unfolded it:  
'Please explain, Ronnie, or take the offer.'  
Nick'  
Well, it was obvious! _Not!_  
“I would also like to see the body of the dead man”, Holmes said, “if that is at all possible.”  
Constable Llywelyn grinned.  
“My sergeant doesn't think much of your work, sir”, he admitted, “but he knows that you always deal fairly with the police. We can see the late Mr. Franklyn now.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Martin Franklyn had been a good-looking young man, I thought sadly, cut down in his prime. The constable shuffled his feet nervously behind us, and I decided there was little more to learn here before leading the way out of the room.  
“Doctor Bullivant said that he thought something was off about the room, sir”, the policeman said as we trooped into a small room. “Too tidy, he said.”  
“As if it had been ransacked by a thief with a tidiness fetish!” I muttered.  
“That may not be too far from the truth”, Holmes said mysteriously. “Tell us more about the four people who lived there, constable.”  
The policeman flipped open his notebook.  
“Mr. Martin Franklyn, twenty-seven, a junior manager at Hamworthy's Bank near St. Paul's”, he said. “His employers say that he was a conscientious worker which was why he achieved promotion at so young an age. Last year he was selected to accompany the general manager, a Mr. Bruce, over to Italy where the bank was looking to establish an office. He also spoke a little Italian, so that may have been why. It was whilst he was there that he met Miss Anna-Maria Fiori, who was a teller at the bank that Hamworthy's was looking to buy.”  
“Did the deal go through?” Holmes asked abruptly. The constable looked surprised at that but checked his notes.  
“No”, he said eventually. “Mr. Franklyn paid an unannounced follow-up visit four months ago and found certain irregularities on the Italian bank's balance sheets. That was also when he persuaded Miss Fiori to accept his hand in marriage and they returned to England together; they had been in communication with each other since his first visit. They were married a month later. Their financial situation was a little difficult so they decided to take in two lodgers.”  
"I am surprised that he purchased a house, being so young", I observed.  
"I thought that too", the constable said, "but there's no mystery there. He had an uncle who left a large sum of money to be split between his nephew and nieces. He was quite rich so they all did well."  
“Tell us about the lodgers”, Holmes urged.  
“Mr. Albert Wales moved in two and a half months ago”, the policeman said. “He is forty-eight and walks with a limp due to a childhood injury that has never fully healed. He works as a clerk at Lloyd's Bank; it has dealings with Hamworthy's which was how Mr. Franklyn met him. He has the larger of the two back rooms. He is incredibly timid. when I was questioning him about the murder, I thought that he was going to faint!”  
“Mr. Julian Willis moved in just over three weeks back. He is thirty-one, visiting London for a time on 'business'. Quite what that 'business' is he declined to say, but his name has come up at the station in connection with a tobacco smuggling operation out of the docks. Has a bit of an undertaker about him, in my opinion. I had the impression – and I may be doing him an injustice here – that Mr. Willis was not overly surprised at his landlord's murder. He said that perhaps he upset the Cosy Noster whilst he was in Italy.”  
I suppressed a smile at the constable's mangling of the Italian language.  
“Is it possible to speak with Mrs. Franklyn?” Holmes asked.  
“Of course”, the constable said. “She did say to visit her anytime, and I am sure that she would not mind answering any questions that you may have.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Mrs. Franklyn had moved into her sister-in-law's house after the tragedy and it was there, in a Gothic monstrosity in Brixton, that we met her. She answered our questions readily enough but there seemed to be nothing new to be learnt from her. Until finally Holmes asked her if there was anything she might care to add herself. She hesitated just fractionally before saying no, and both of us saw it. Holmes gently pressed her to tell us.  
“It is probably nothing”, she said, “but there was the matter of dear Martin's watch.”  
“What about it?” Holmes asked.  
“He had two watches”, she explained. “The one he wore that I purchased for him in Italy, only a cheap thing, and a second much older one that he had inherited from his grandfather, which was quite valuable. He always kept that one locked in his writing-desk and never wore it in public, not even on special occasions. But when the constable handed me back the things that he had had on him when they took the... him away, it was his grandfather's watch that had been in his pocket.”  
“In his pocket, not on his chain?” Holmes asked.  
“No, sir. I asked, and they said that it was loose. And there was no sign of my watch either, although perhaps he put it somewhere.”  
“Where did he keep the valuable watch normally?” Holmes asked.  
“In his writing-desk”, she explained. “Perhaps he swapped them over for some reason and my one is in there now. I did not think to check.”  
“I am surprised he did not keep something as valuable in a safer place”, I observed. She smiled at me.  
“It is safer than you might think”, she explained. “The centre-left draw is one of those that turns as it opens. Only when it is fully open and locked into position can you then press down a button at the back, pull the whole thing out further and gain access to a small additional compartment. The watch was kept there.”  
“Very clever”, Holmes said, taking the key. “Thank you for your patience at such a difficult time, madam. We shall of course keep you fully apprised of our findings should there be any, and I shall make sure that this is returned to you as soon as possible. Which reminds me, do you have the other items that were found on him?”  
“They are still in the bag the policeman gave me”, she said, shuddering at the memory. “I left them at the house. I did not want.....”  
“We fully understand”, he cut in. “Madam, I feel that it is important for us to see those items and that watch. May we have permission to enter your house and examine them?”  
“Of course”, she said.   
She opened her reticule and extracted a small key which she handed to my friend. We made our farewells and left.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I was somewhat surprised, if not a little worried, when Holmes asked me if I had thought to bring my revolver (I had). Since he wanted to meet the two lodgers at the house and it was still early afternoon we went to my favourite little restaurant in Trafalgar Square for a late lunch, and after spending some time in the National Gallery we returned to Camberwell just before six. Constable Llywelyn was in the kitchen talking to the two lodgers and I thought that Holmes was going to question them at once, but after a brief aside with the constable he shepherded me into the living-room.  
We found Mr. Franklyn's secret compartment easily enough, although my hands were too large to reach the back, and even Holmes had to stretch to activate the secret compartment. Inside was an obviously cheap pocket watch and a winding-key. I was about to reach forward when Holmes stayed my hand.  
“Observe”, he muttered.  
I looked, but I only saw a watch and a key.   
“What?” I asked.  
“The dust”, he said, moving out of the light from the window.  
I looked again and this time I saw it. The watch lay in one half of the tiny extra space whilst the mark in the dust that it should have left lay in the other half.   
“He moved it”, I said, puzzled. “But why?”  
Holmes took both items out and added them to our pile of the late Mr. Franklyn's belongings which, apart from the house keys (which Mrs. Franklyn had shown us and kept) and the other watch, consisted of the following:  
A wallet containing one pound, nine shillings and sixpence farthing.  
A receipt for a tie purchased from a store in London.  
A laundry bill marked 'paid'.  
A set of three keys, one of which was the same as the writing-desk key.  
A handkerchief initialled with an 'M'.  
A notepad, empty, with a small pencil.  
An old train ticket, return to the City, clipped.  
“It is not much, for a human life”, I observed.  
Holmes nodded, and looked thoughtfully across at the hearth, where the dead man had been found. And then I saw the light come on in his eyes.  
“What?” I demanded.  
He shook his head and picked up the watch and the winding-key on the key set from the dead man. Carefully, he tried to wind the watch. The key did not fit.  
“But why?” I asked. “Unless that is the key to the other watch?”  
I took the key from him and tried it in the cheaper watch from the drawer. It fitted perfectly. I wound it a little and then took it out, waiting for the watch to start up again.  
Except that it did not. I stared at it in confusion. Holmes smiled knowingly and pulled out his pocket-knife, using it to gently lever the back of the newer watch open. Inside was a small, folded piece of paper. He extracted it, read it, and then leant over and whispered something to me.  
I nodded.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

We were back in the kitchen.  
“Gentlemen, thank you for sparing me some of your precious time”, Holmes smiled at the two lodgers. “I am pleased to tell you that the killer of Mr. Martin Franklyn will very soon be arrested.”  
Mr. Wales blinked in surprise at the news, although Mr. Willis seemed to take it more calmly.  
“Excellent!” the taller man beamed. “Who was it?”  
Holmes had walked round the table at this point, and was behind the taller lodger as he spoke. Without warning, he suddenly had a pair of handcuffs on the shocked man, just as I took out my gun and pointed it at him. The man stared, then chuckled.  
“I think you will find that your English courts need something called evidence, Mr. Holmes”, he said silkily.  
“I have it”, Holmes smiled. “The best evidence that there could possibly be. A note from the murdered man saying that you, Mr. Julian Willis, were about to poison him.”  
Mr. Willis wrenched at the handcuffs, but they held firm.  
“You lie!” he spat out. Holmes took a chair and smiled at him.  
“Mr. Franklyn knew that he was doomed from the moment he saw the letter that had gone astray”, he said. “I do not know what he did back in Italy, but what is important is that he upset someone there who had the power to have him killed. From the delay, I will conjecture that the man ordering the killing could not be one hundred per cent sure of Mr. Franklyn's 'guilt' in the matter until a few weeks ago, when he arranged for you to become a lodger here.”  
“What did the letter mean?” the constable asked. “It made no sense.”  
“It would have done to someone expecting it”, Holmes explained. “Take the first letter of each word and it spells out the word 'Perotto' – the nickname for one of the many victims of that infamous poisoning and poisonous family, the Borgias.”  
Our captive wrenched at his cuffs but they held firm. I held my gun steady and he glowered at me.   
“Once you were installed, the plan was for you to execute your target upon receipt of that confirmation”, Holmes continued. “But untidy writing caused the letter ordering you to strike to go astray, and the machinations of Providence meant that it chanced to fall into the hands of Mr. Franklyn. He suspected that you were the killer, as he knew for a fact that Mr. Wales here had never left England whilst the purpose of your stay in London is somewhat mysterious. He also knew when he saw that letter that his time in this world was short. His only thought was to make sure that his killer – you - paid for your crime.”  
“Of course he has a problem. If nothing happens then there will be a second letter ordering you to kill him; indeed, one may already be on its way since the man ordering the killing will no doubt be puzzled as to why he has not heard of his target's demise. But if Mr. Franklyn tries to leave any sort of message indicating your guilt, he knows that you will find it. So what does he do? He goes gardening.”  
“What?” Constable Llywelyn exclaimed. Holmes smiled.  
“That was the first clue”, he said. “The herbs in the vase looked innocent enough, but they are in fact _thyme_ \- an indication as to where Mr. Franklyn planned to leave his letter accusing you, Mr. Willis. He then swaps over the two watches – _but not the winding-keys_ – and places the accusatory note in the mechanism of the hidden, cheaper watch. He hopes, correctly as it turned out, that it might be noted that he wore 'the wrong watch'. He then locks the cheaper watch with the wrong winding-key in his writing-desk, deliberately moving it across so as to leave a dust mark which will further incite suspicion when spotted. Finally he copies out the letter and leaves the copy in the shed, then sets the original for you to find.”  
“You find the letter and Mr. Martin Franklyn meets his end calmly. It is then you make your other mistake. Fearing that he may have been forewarned, you search both him and the room thoroughly. You were wise enough to leave on his person the detritus most men carry around with them, but in searching the room you make a point of replacing everything where it should be, and dusting away any prints. The attending doctor was right when he said the room felt almost _too_ clean. You checked your victim's watch thoroughly, but did not find anything – for the letter accusing you was folded into the back of his cheaper watch, hidden in his secret compartment.   
The cuffed man snarled at him. Holmes produced the folded piece of paper that he had extracted from the watch and read it.   
“'Julian Willis poisoned me. Signed, Martin Franklyn.' You are quite correct, sir, English courts do, quite rightly, demand a high level of proof before they dispatch someone to the gallows. But I rather think that a signed note from the victim might just meet those high standards.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

We took a cab back to Baker Street, but Holmes said that he had to call in again at the small jewellery shop. I liked the place although on my poor doctor's salary I could never have afforded much in there. Some months ago they had displayed a most handsome gentleman's bracelet, unusually solid and with a price tag that had made my eyes water. I looked for it in the window but it was gone.  
I had telegraphed Constance that I would be home for dinner so I said my goodbyes to Holmes. To my surprise he looked decidedly awkward.  
“I have to say something”, he said hesitantly. “Some time back I made certain insinuations about your writing skills that were quite uncalled for. I know now that those words were hurtful and wrong, and I am very sorry.”  
I was shocked. I had never thought to hear the great man sound so apologetic. I tried for words, but nothing came out. Holmes handed me a small bag.  
“I would like you to accept that as part of my apology”, he said, looking strangely hopeful.  
I pulled out what seemed to be some sort of jewellery box, and opened it. Then I gasped. A combination of onyx, tiger's eye and gold seemed to fill the room. It was the bracelet.  
“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “I cannot.... I mean....”  
“Please”, he said earnestly. “And I promise to think in future before saying such things.”  
The gewgaw was gorgeous, and I could only nod dumbly. I thanked him somehow and left, feeling lighter than I had done for many a day of late.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Postscriptum: Perhaps predictably, Mr. Willis did not make it to the gallows. Whilst being held in prison before his trial he was stabbed to death by another inmate in an apparently motiveless attack; his 'employers' had obviously decided that they dare not risk his talking in an effort to save his wretched life. Thus those who live by the sword so often die by it._

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
